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by yeaka



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-19 23:01:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2406065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jimmy half-arse takes Isis for a walk, and Thomas doesn’t really help.</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This isn’t historically accurate or properly British.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Downton Abbey or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Mr. Bates is supposed to be walking Isis, but she runs too fast and strains him, and Thomas winds up next in line but knows he’s above it and would rather use the excuse to talk to Jimmy than Branson, who really should be next. A ‘no’ is clearly on the tip of Jimmy’s tongue, until Mr. Carson bustles in with a plate of silverware in need of a thorough polish, and then he’s out the door so fast he hardly has time to grab his hat. Thomas smirks to himself at simultaneous aiding Jimmy and spiting Carson, and he heads outside ‘for a smoke.’

He finds Jimmy dawdling out back, clearly too lazy to bother a full walk, and Thomas rolls his eyes and says, “It’s not so hard.” 

“It’s not that it’s hard,” Jimmy quips back, leaning against the wall. The sun washes beautifully over his skin and lights up his yellow hair, making his eyes seem to glow. “It’s that I don’t want to.”

“You want to go back in and run chores for Carson, then?”

Jimmy scrunches up his nose and asks, “You won’t tell on me, will you?” As though Thomas would ever even consider that.

Thomas would straight up lie for Jimmy, definitely cheat, probably steal. When he smiles, Jimmy nods like he knows that. He rubs the back of his head with the hand that isn’t holding the leash while Isis meanders between them, making soft whining noises. She has no idea their stalling won’t get her anywhere. Maybe Thomas feels bad for her, leftover responsible for prior transgressions. 

Or maybe he wants an excuse to pretend to do more than he usually could with Jimmy, so he starts walking and pats his leg to signal Isis to follow. “Come on, then.” The pale lab yelps happily and strains to the end of her leash to follow, and Jimmy sighs as he’s tugged forward.

“Thomas...”

“Come on. It’ll be double chores for you if Carson catches you out here.”

“And if he catches the two of us out here?” He doesn’t say the rest, but it hangs in the air anyway. Thomas doesn’t look back just in case his embarrassment shows, and he just shrugs. 

“We’re walking the dog. Nothing wrong with that.” He waits a moment before he glances at Jimmy, who nods slowly and shuffles to catch up. 

It’s a beautiful day. Any day out for a walk with Jimmy would be beautiful, but today is especially so, with the sun shining down at the perfect, lukewarm temperature and the ground soft and dry beneath their feet. Jimmy starts to veer off the pavement when they get to the taller flower arrangements the gardens sport, tucked over across the lawn. “We can hide in them,” Jimmy suggests while he gestures, and Isis doesn’t seem to care either way, just happily follows where Jimmy leads her, not that different than Thomas. Thomas has never been particularly thorough with his jobs, but he still finds amusement in Jimmy attempting to shortcut something so inane as walking a dog. But it wasn’t his task, so he supposes it doesn’t matter.

If they’re caught, he’ll defend it like it was. Jimmy picks his way through a smattering of flowering trees Thomas has never bothered to learn the names of, and eventually they find a thick patch of bushes and a little bench that people rarely visit. Isis sits quietly while Jimmy ties her leash around the wooden leg, and Thomas pets her and coos, “Good girl.”

Then Jimmy sits down in the grass, tugs his livery straight, and carefully lies down, settling into position like he means to nod off. Thomas looks between him and the bench pointedly, but Jimmy doesn’t say anything, so Thomas has to ask, “Too good for the bench, are you?”

“People could see us over the hedge if we sit there,” Jimmy says like it’s obvious. 

“And when you show back up with grass stains?”

“I’ll say I tripped and Isis pulled me down.” And Thomas will back it up. 

Thomas glances around himself anyway, always cautious. One of his better habits. But they’re alone, truly alone, and lying down, it’s unlikely anyone will see them. It would actually be safer to lie down than stand, so Thomas, sighing, settles down onto his arse. He sits deliberately further away than he wants to, and Jimmy tells him, “You don’t have to do that.”

“What?”

“Lie so far away.”

Thomas, still propped up on his elbows, gives Jimmy a pointed look. Nothing good can come of him fulfilling his daydreams; he already knows that. But Jimmy shakes his head, stubborn, and insists, “It’ll be more conspicuous if I have to shout at you. Come here, proper. So I can be quiet.” 

That... vaguely makes sense. It doesn’t make it any less dangerous, but Thomas doesn’t need to have his arm twisted to sit near Jimmy, so he does shuffle closer, and closer still when Jimmy keeps waving him nearer, then finally grabs his gloved hand and tugs him right over, so they’re side by side. He gives an exasperated look like Thomas is being willfully difficult, and Thomas slowly retracts his hand from Jimmy’s soft grip and tries not to show how it makes him feel. When he lets his shoulders relax naturally, they brush Jimmy’s, and he swears he can _feel_ Jimmy’s skin through the fabric. He keeps his arms tight at his sides so they won’t be touching everywhere, so their hands won’t be intertwined like Thomas so childishly wants them to be. He can smell the soap Jimmy uses, the sweat Jimmy’s shed from earlier chores in full livery. Jimmy’s hat has toppled off his head in the grass, and his hair frames his face like a halo. 

He looks at Thomas with his perfect, full lips, and he asks, “Who’s your favourite sister? Lady Mary or Lady Edith?”

“What?” Sybil. Sybil was. But she’s gone now, and the rest of them don’t matter, and it’s a stupid question.

“Small talk.” Jimmy makes a face like Thomas is being deliberately obtuse. “Just because you can’t fancy them doesn’t mean you can’t pick a favourite.”

“I don’t have a favourite.” Supposing maybe Jimmy just wanted to bring him here, pull him close and taunt him with talk of pretty women, Thomas makes himself ask, “You?”

But Jimmy shrugs and says, “Edith, I suppose. Mary’s better looking, obviously, but she seems like she’s a lot more condescending, y’know? Not that I’ve ever talked much to either of them in as long as I’ve worked here.” Thomas’ face scrunches; he wants to ask why Jimmy even brought it up. 

But Jimmy just reaches his hands back behind his head, and Thomas has to turn his face away to avoid getting elbowed. Jimmy watches the clouds for a few moments, and Thomas pretends to do the same, when really, he’s watching Jimmy out of his peripherals. He knows it isn’t right, but he isn’t about to waste the opportunity. 

Finally, still staring straight up, Jimmy asks, “So... why do you like me so much, anyway?”

Thomas’ throat goes dry. It constricts painfully, and he coughs. Jimmy glances sideways at him; his cheeks might be heating. It’s foolish. He’s too old for this. But... these sort of _feelings_ reduce him all the same, and he feels like a mess. He says quietly, “That’s not a good idea.”

“What, to ask?” Jimmy draws his hands back and waves one like it’s no big deal, then lets his arms fall back to his sides, loose enough that they’re brushing Thomas’. Thomas shivers and hopes Jimmy doesn’t notice. “Why shouldn’t I? Everyone likes to be liked.” And Jimmy, perfect, vain-as-hell Jimmy would like it especially. Thomas should’ve guessed that.

It still seems stupid to talk about. He couldn’t stand to break them apart again, not now that they’re _finally_ working out. Now that Jimmy trusts him enough to lay this close to him. 

Jimmy elbows him in the ribs, smiles that radiant, youthful, dazzling smile and prods, “C’mon. I want to hear how great I am. Tell me.”

How is Thomas supposed to resist that?

He should still say nothing. He _means_ to say nothing. But his mouth opens anyway, like a door Jimmy’s just unlocked, and he pours out, “You’re gorgeous, for starters.” Immediately afterwards, he wants to take it back. 

But Jimmy just sort of smirks, crooked but perfect, and says, “Too true.”

Thomas has a sharp intake of breath. He could elaborate. He could talk about the irresistible way Jimmy’s hair falls or the succulent pout to his lips or the flawless expanse of his spine, but instead Thomas clears his throat, licks his lips by accident and intones as generically as possible, “Well, you’re smart. Very clever. You’re... you’re interesting. Never dull. You’re ambitious but not simpering. You were... you _are_... good to me, now that we’ve... that we’ve fixed things...” He’ gone too far. He should stop. But Jimmy’s still watching him, fair features lapsed into a rare moment of serious concentration, and Thomas babbles on, “You’re fun to be around. Everyone gravitates to you. I think... I think we have good chemistry, when we’re together; we work well, understand each other... although, I realize, of course, I misunderstood at first, but I—”

“I understand,” Jimmy cuts him off. “Chemistry. You’re right.”

Thomas doesn’t know what to say. He’s honestly surprised. So he doesn’t say anything. 

Jimmy stares at him, and for a moment, Thomas thinks he should say more. He should say that he looks forward to every one of their conversations, that Jimmy is the first thing he thinks of in the morning, the last at night, that no one’s ever made Thomas glow quite so bright as Jimmy does, that he’s never seen anyone so handsome, so enticing, so like Thomas’ sun, something he circles and is drawn to and could never hope to truly get away from, because without Jimmy everything is just so much darker and meaningless—

Jimmy moves in the grass. He rolls onto his side, keeps going, and Thomas, startled, would pull back, but there’s nowhere to go. He stays like a statue on his back, and then Jimmy’s half atop him, draped over his side, heavy and warm and stealing all of Thomas’ air. Jimmy’s nose bumps into his, brushes to the side, and Jimmy’s mouth is suddenly pressed into Thomas’, and all Thomas can do is gasp and freeze while Jimmy’s lips draw a slow line along his, soft and wet and _perfect_.

Then Jimmy is lifting that centimeter up, golden hair still tumbling down to mess in with Thomas’ bangs and slide across his forehead. The light silhouettes Jimmy like the angel he’ll never be but always is to Thomas. He props himself on his elbow so that his weight leaves Thomas’ chest, but he’s still hovering _right there_ , and he whispers, “You had a forced kiss coming.”

Thomas doesn’t know if he wants to mutter an apology or demand an explanation or melt right into the earth. He feels stupid and dizzy, and he wants desperately to lift up and reconnect them, but he knows he can’t and he stays. 

Jimmy smirks and purrs, “At least I had the courtesy to ease you into it, make sure we were on the same page, and that no one would butt in.”

Thomas blurts, “Sorry.” He’s said it a million times, but that never makes him mean it any less. Jimmy grins like he knows. 

He says, “You’ll just have to move at my pace, alright?”

“Alright.” Anything Jimmy says. _Anything_.

Jimmy eases off. Thomas’ body screams not to let him, but nonetheless, Thomas forces his limbs to obediently stay where they are. Jimmy rolls onto his back again, settled in right next to Thomas. Isis finally stirs, maybe startled by the movement, and comes to poke around their heads. Thomas doesn’t even care when her wet nose nuzzles into his hair. 

He openly stares at Jimmy, who lounges like the prince he should be and declares, “Carson obviously prefers Lady Mary, but of course boring people would stick together.” Then he glances sideways at Thomas, scrunches his nose up in disgust, and asks, “Do you think he and Mrs. Hughes have a thing?”

Thomas’ throat finally unclogs, and he mock-gags. Not something he wants to think about. How Jimmy even got on that train of thought after kissing him, he has no idea.

But Jimmy did _kiss him_ , so Thomas is perfectly content to lie right there, making stupid small talk and plotting devilish plans and wanting Jimmy to kiss him again until Isis starts to really mewl, and they have to take her back to the house just as Carson pokes out to fuss.


End file.
